


1st floor West wing male bathroom, don't go in there

by kwunkwun



Category: EXILE (JPOP), Sandaime J Soul Brothers
Genre: Butt Sex, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-16
Updated: 2017-03-16
Packaged: 2018-10-06 08:53:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10331009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kwunkwun/pseuds/kwunkwun
Summary: Everything is a sticky, hot mess. The rubber soles of their boots squeak on the tiles as they blindly push one another into the cubicle furthest from the door. His palm on the back of Iwata's head. His crotch glued to Iwata's ass. And they haven't even pulled their pants down yet.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [woodyramone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/woodyramone/gifts).



Everything is a sticky, hot mess. The rubber soles of their boots squeak on the tiles as they blindly push one another into the cubicle furthest from the door. His palm on the back of Iwata's head. His crotch glued to Iwata's ass. And they haven't even pulled their pants down yet.

The tips of Iwata's ears are red, Ken notices, as he presses his nose into the crook of his shoulder to suck and bite. His skin is dewy with sweat. They both stink of it. But Iwata likes dirty, doesn't he? Otherwise he wouldn't squeal and hiss when he sticks his hands greedily up the front of his shirt to pinch and rub roughly at his nipples. Otherwise he wouldn't grind his ass back against his groin like he's worried that he's not already aching hard for him.

Speaking of grind, how had Iwata looked when he was on that stage, thighs spread and on his knees, rolling his hips into the air to the low thrum of the music? He couldn't see him from his angle but he had felt the heat of Iwata's gaze. Not his imagination. Because Iwata had snagged him by the wrist right after the performance and dragged them here for their seven minutes in heaven. Seven minutes is probably not enough, but anyway.

The pleasure that races through him as he rubs against Iwata is torture and bliss all rolled into one. Iwata's hot, laboured breathing paints the tiled wall with condensation. He gropes down Iwata's stomach, palming the bulge between his thighs gracelessly, until he has Iwata wriggling against him out of pure frustration. Under the harsh white glow of the bathroom lights, the look in Iwata's eyes takes on another kind of hunger. Raw. Brutal. A sleek black panther perched over a fresh kill. He unzips him and yanks his pants and boxers down to his knees. The air is choked with the smell of sweat and impending sex. The small of Iwata's back glistens with perspiration, and he watches a drop glide down his spine, between his asscheeks, disappearing.

"Lube and rubber in your jacket. Inner pocket," Iwata croaks out.

His fingers are on his own fly and he stares at Iwata for a few seconds, uncomprehending. Then he pats at his jacket and pulls out the -tools of the trade, he likes to call it, to get on Iwata's nerves -he tears open the package and slips one on, gritting his teeth from how his dick is throbbing in his hand.

"Give me one too? Don't wanna clean up. Kenjiro-san." His name is added almost like an afterthought: he knows Iwata's desperate enough to fuck off with honorifics and just boss him around.

"When did you slip these in my pocket, huh?" Ken chuckles this into Iwata's ear before giving it a nice long lick along the shell. Iwata's dick is wet with precome before he even touches him, and before rolling on the condom he takes a moment to run his thumb all over the tip and make Iwata fall to pieces.

Ken goes to slick up his fingers but Iwata reaches back to grab him clumsily by the wrist. He pulls free, tries again, only to get slapped across the forearm until the bottle almost flies out of his hand.

"What the _fuck_ , Gun-chan! Co-operate! Do you want to fuck or not?"

In his haste and irritation he pushes Iwata forward a little too hard and his forehead meets the wall with a dull thunk. Iwata grunts in pain, but Ken's too pissed off to apologize.

"Did all the prep. Just fuck me," he explains, voice almost a whine.

" _What?_ "

"I said I already did the prep. Jesus Christ. Please hurry the fuck up. Kenjiro-san."

The 'Kenjiro-san' came even later this time.

Ken unceremoniously dollops his palm with lube and coats himself thoroughly before squirting the rest over Iwata's ass. It's a fucking chaotic work of art and he's about to blow a fuse.

"You set me up for all this, did you?"

He puts a growl in his voice because he knows Iwata likes it. He rubs his dick once or twice over his ass and it's definitely not his imagination -Iwata's hole is already clenching in anticipation.

"Maybe I did, Kenjiro-san."

Iwata's fucking smirking. He bites him on that soft spot behind his ear for all his trouble, and rudely pries him apart. He takes a deep breath and slowly pushes in. Predictably, the stretch has Iwata whimpering like a dog and him seeing dancing spots of white.

"This is fucking crazy. I'm pulling out -

"No! Oh god, don't - please-

Iwata is looking at him like he's been starved to delirium: eyes blown and wet, cheeks blotched with red, hair a damp and dishevelled mess.

Like he can say no to that.

"You're fucking insane," he still reminds him in a gritty murmur.

Gripping onto Iwata's hips for dear life, he carefully eases himself in the rest of the way. There's the squeak of Iwata's palms against the tiles as he grapples for purchase on the wall. It feels like the sweetest hell, the way Iwata's walls squeeze around him like a vice.

"Ugh -oh -oh, oh god. Fuck." Iwata's words are caught between spluttering and ragged breathing. Ken buries himself right up to the hilt, and when his pelvis finally meets Iwata's backside, he fails to stop his hips from bucking reflexively. The motion makes Iwata squeal and spasm around him, and Ken hisses from how he's almost choking his cock.

"Hurts a little," Iwata groans.

"Well that's what you fucking get for being greedy." But his voice softens right afterwards and he brings up a hand to rub languid circles on Iwata's belly. "I can wait a little longer. Just try to relax and breathe."

He bends down, chest flush against Iwata's back, and he can feel their mismatched heartbeats overlapping. A thundering sound like standing underneath a passing jetplane.

Iwata shivers as he rains kisses over his nape, and Ken passes a hand lightly over his arousal, in case he needs some extra encouragement. The first ten or twenty seconds of stalemate feel torturous but soon enough he realizes that it is a good thing for the two of them to regain some semblance of control.

"We good to go?" he asks, nipping Iwata lightly on the ear.

"Mm. Okay." Iwata, bless the gods, reinforces the point by experimentally rocking back against him, and it sparks a fresh, powerful desire in his veins.

Yeah, he's going to fuck him _so_ good.

He drags Iwata's hips higher to give himself better leverage, and then he pulls back for one slow, slow thrust. Listening to the squelch of Iwata's ass eagerly taking him back in is seriously going to give him a heart attack. Iwata's heavy breathing gradually gives way to ragged moans as Ken settles into a steady rhythm.

Everything is slippery and hot -his hands on Iwata's body, the way his soaked tee clings to his back, that uncooperative strand of hair dripping sweat into his eye. Iwata's shoes squeak on the floor as he nudges his knees further apart, and he's trying to fold his arms under his head so he can prop himself up a bit better. But there's no politeness at this point, no playing Mr. Nice Guy, so Ken doesn't wait for him to set himself into position before rocking hard into him, into that infuriatingly perfect ass, at a well-practiced angle so he can hit the spot that makes Iwata crumble like a house of cards, make him cry _more, yes, fuck, harder, Kenjiro-san._

Iwata wails from the abuse, and then it turns into a shaky moan. The perspiration on the back of his neck glitter like diamonds under the fluorescent light, and there's nothing graceful about this image of him, all messed up and red and trembling from every hard thrust that he delivers. Ken reaches around to take hold of his dick, and he begins to crudely pump him along with the pummelling of his hips. Every time he hits his prostate he can feel Iwata's cock twitch in his hand, and it makes his vision swim with the crimson mirage of dirty, muddy lust.

"Kenjiro-san. Kenjiro-san. I -ugh, _oh_ -can't - _please_. Oh, fuck -harder. Kenjiro-san." He's afraid that Iwata’s going to choke on his own tongue because his words almost sound like gibberish.

"Yeah, I got you," he promises -it turns out his own voice is not all that much better.

He drives into him, harder, faster, more erratic, till the background becomes a blur of light and pale colour. The coil in the pit of his stomach threatens to unravel, and Ken grits his teeth, frantic to get both of them up the joyride and over the cliff.

"Go on. Let's see you come. Show me."

He presses his mouth to Iwata's ear and adds his first name in a quiet growl. It makes Iwata gasp and shake all over, and then he comes with a sob, ass clenching sporadically around him, dick jumping in his palm. Iwata apparently has no courtesy to wait for him to follow -he's already putty in his hand, sliding bonelessly down the wall. But thankfully he reaches his peak not long after, given that Iwata's walls are spasming around his cock and making him feel like a fish out of water. He loops an arm around Iwata's waist, keeping him anchored against his body as he bucks into him a few more times to ride out the pounding waves of his orgasm.

And then that's it.

All the strength leaves him and he lets himself crumple to the floor along with the sated lover in his arms. His elbows hits the edge of the toilet seat along the way but his nerves are far too fucked over by his high to register the pain.

"God. You're really something else, you know that?" Ken groans against Iwata's neck.

He feels Iwata chuckle soundlessly.

"Kenjiro-san."

"Hm?"

"It really kind of stinks in here."

"Dude, you're killing the vibes."

"Mm. Sorry. You're handsome and perfect and I love you."

Iwata turns his head with some difficulty to give him a sloppy kiss.

"Fucking brat."

He's smiling, of course.

It'll probably take a crowbar to pry them off the floor once they both recover. But in the meantime he just listens to Iwata breathe and occasionally complain about the arm around his waist being too heavy.

**Author's Note:**

> H&L live, rendition of Southside (is it that one? I'm not sure?) is a dirty, dirty pit of inspiration. I've never busted a nut so hard in my life watching it.


End file.
